


Dies Irae

by lonerofthepack



Series: Mages of Aethyrmere [1]
Category: Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, Freeform B and the B, Original Work
Genre: Author dredges file of old work to fling into the void, F/M, Magic Curse - freeform, dependant interpersonal relationships, flapping curtains level of vague sex, politics of magic, sorry folks, this is a bad romance novel with shades of beauty and the beast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 04:58:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonerofthepack/pseuds/lonerofthepack
Summary: The meddling of young faeries have consequences, and the mages who have been their victims are not pleased, and are not particularly interested in acknowleding they are firmly in love.





	Dies Irae

The wind howled, a trapped, demented beast bemoaning its fate. It carried with it snow, whipping it like tiny needles against any flesh unfortunate enough to be bared to its temperamental wrath. Snow lay on the ground, covering it like some smothering blanket, hiding the many treacherous pitfalls of this land.

A figure, cloaked in a vain attempt to hide from the vicious elements, as well as the prying gazes of those who might care to look, and the large, hardy grey gelding it rode astride struggled against the gusts, fighting its way towards the huge, dark mountain of architecture that loomed before the two of them. Minutes passing felt like hours, but still they surged on, until at last they stood before the castle’s gates, while the gargoyles’ stone eyes watched in eerie silence.

The gates opened with a creak like the crack of doom yawning wide, and admitted them before swinging closed with a deep, reverberating thud that echoed again and again in the rider’s heart. Here in the courtyard, no demon wind blew; no hail, nor snow struck fiercely at chilled skin. All was quiet, a smooth sheet of snow bathed in silver light. The rider reached up, and drew down the deep hood of the cloak, revealing to the moon high, sharp cheekbones, a proud, straight nose, and hair the color of heart’s blood that curled with wild abandon around a narrow, deceivingly delicate face.

With a subtle command from hands and legs, she steered the gelding toward the stables, dismounted, and led him into the warmth. She would see to his well-being and comfort before her own. It gave a much-needed excuse to avoid the castle proper yet; a reprieve from the hardships that lay before her.

Besides, the castle proper was where _he_ waited, pacing and restless. He would be short-tempered and snarling tonight, or distant and cool. Her lupine lover, as trapped as she was, fully as powerful: her match in nearly every way.

 

 

He was pacing. He always paced, at the equinoctial turns. Down the hall, away from the light and unfelt heat of the fire he’d lit, then turning back, toward it again until he’d passed it by, unheeded, for the other corner’s shadows. His feet, shod in soft black leather, made no sound against the heavy flagstones that made up the floor. Indeed, he was clad all in black, entirely, so that when he reached his shadows, he very nearly became one of them, save for the paleness of his face and hands. His dark hair was long, in the traditional way of male mages, bound back out of his face with a strip of leather. His lover thought it soft as the shadows he clung so habitually to.

He growled softly when she swept into the hall, warning and welcome in the same low, velvety sound as warmth returned to his veins in a rush of feeling, and spun on a heel to face her.

 

“Allaidh,” she intoned, head held imperiously high as she greeted him by name.

Eyes neither silver nor amber but a strange, striking mix of the two narrowed. Wolf’s eyes, she thought. They suited his harsh, unhandsome features perfectly, with its stark, strongly hewn angles, in his narrow, intelligent face.

“Móra,” he replied, guardedly, eyeing her the way he would a gryffin. With respectful caution and a certain degree of wariness. It would be distance, then, and coolness.

They stood still, watching one another, testing the other in the nearly unbearable silence and tension.

“Dinner is in the sitting room,” he muttered, breaking the silence, and turned away to lead her there, though she needed a guide no more than he did. Dinner was, indeed, _always_ in the sitting room—they had collectively eschewed the vast dining hall in favor of the smaller, warmer room to its side.

 

 

He hated the waiting. Allaidh was not a patient man, not when there was no foreseeable end. It had been years now, and the end was still hidden from view. But it was the day spent helplessly waiting, every three months like clockwork, _that_ drove him mad. Waking to find her gone—and she always, _always_ , damn her eyes, rose before him and slipped away on the equinoxes—shook him, even though it had happened before and would again. The clutch of fear in his belly— _she’d escaped on her own, and left him here, alone_ —the panicked urge to search the castle from top to bottom. Every single time, it struck, hard and fast as a lightning bolt to the heart. The insidious cold that crept into him, the minute he discovered her absence, dulling everything to a selfless chill.

Not that it would matter, he knew, even if she was there every single day of every year. Days were wasted for him; the Change insured that, insured that she gazed upon him as little more than a large, angry dog. Trapped in the form of a beast, mute and helpless to do aught about it, he was worth less than that damned horse to her. Except when it rained, and she was trapped inside the castle with him, she fled to the stable and stayed away as long as she could. And when she returned to the castle, it was straight to the library, where, in wolf-form, he couldn’t even try to undo what had been done—wolf eyes weren’t meant for deciphering mage code, and his magic slipped just out of reach until the sun went fully down.

Her reaction, he knew, should mean nothing to him—they were…not enemies, but rivals, and they always had been. Lovers, yes, and there was definitely attraction between them, but rivals first, and foremost. The affair was the only release of tension either of them had had access to for too many long years.

If he’d remained fully human, perhaps nothing would have changed. Perhaps he would feel the jumble of irritation and attraction and disdain for her, the cocky sorceress who wouldn’t mind her own bloody business. But the Change, terrible and dehumanizing, made those four days she spent away unbearable, even without the cold. She was, in a very real way, what anchored him fully to the human race.

This is what happened when two strong mages clashed, he thought, holding out the chair for her. Magic deadlocked, rebounding and tangling in odd ways. Add to that the interference of meddling godlings, and disaster was born. Two enemies, instead of finally ending it between themselves, had been sentenced endlessly to one another’s company. As if that hadn’t been enough, one was forced to physically alter his form with the rising and setting of the sun, wasn’t permitted to leave the boundaries of their prison, and wouldn’t feel warm, no matter what he did, until she was home, those four days she went. The other could leave only four days of the year, but color would leech away during those four days, food and drink would taste of ash. Physical sensation would register only in sight, like a phantom. There was, literally, no other person that either of them could touch. They had each other, only.

            So, it couldn’t have been love that stirred in him, that made him have to fight down the animalistic urge to howl to the moon when she disappeared every three months; that had him roaming their shared home like a beast searching for its mate, unwilling to accept her absence. That left him cold as snow and bone and ice. Loneliness, perhaps, or anger, or even fear. But it couldn’t be love.

 

 

“Were you successful, then?” he asked, as he took his seat beside her, and poured the wine into large pewter goblets.

“No,” Móra replied, picking up her cup and sipping delicately. It was, naturally, full-bodied and the slightest bit sweet, as the wine here always was.  “The bookseller has not seen anything of use to us, but he says he will hold something if he thinks it might.” She was determined to be free of this curse; determined not to let interfering young _sìthiche_ trap her here, awaiting rescue, or the unlikely return of their good graces. Faeries were fickle creatures, regardless.

He nodded, and said nothing, drinking from his own chalice to excuse his silence. There was often silence in this castle, great stretches of it that left the stark rooms frozen and vaguely uncomfortable, and pushed between them like harsh, limitless deserts.

“Have you found anything?” she asked in return, pushing back the silence that encroached like a living, breathing thing for yet another moment.

“No.”

 

 

“You did _what?_ ” Conrì thundered, looming over two much younger _sìthiche_. They had the grace, at least, to look ashamed, ducking their heads and pinning their green gazes to the ground.

“It is against all of our laws to fool with the humans,” the Sìthiche Prince continued, emerald lightening crackling in his gaze. “Especially mages. There are _reasons_ , children.”

“We’re very sorry, sir,” the more intrepid of the two managed, raising his head slightly. He couldn’t help but wince at his sovereign’s expression.

“You’ll be sorrier yet,” Conrì promised, darkly. “Two hundred years of watching over phytoplankton should cure any inclination you may have to meddle.” Identical shudders shook the supernaturally handsome lads before him.

“Please, sir,” the brave one spoke again, this time with his eyes fixed firmly on his feet. “If we could just repair the dam—”

“No,” the Prince cut him short with one sharp word. “With the mess the two of you have made, I shudder to think what will happen to your victims if I allowed you to attempt to right what you’ve done. I will deal with it, personally.”

“Yes, sir,” two voices echoed repentantly.

 

 

He’d found an answer to their problem. A spell, a simple incantation, damnably easy, that could be done anytime, anywhere. It was a wonder it had gone unnoticed for so long. But then, they’d been seeking something that would help the both of them, so perhaps that explained why he’d not thought of it this way before.

 Allaidh eased back in his high-backed chair, contemplating the dusty tome before him. Several candles flickered, throwing light in this dim corner of the monstrous library, casting shadows against the walls and shelves of books, illuminating the tired lines in his bony face.

Well, he corrected himself sardonically; it was half a solution. It would aid Móra —a counter for the powerful _feel-naught_ curse that afflicted her. It would do nothing at all for him.

One long finger stroked the symbols of the Old Language in which the spell was so lovingly inscribed. He ought to tell her; rise to his feet and track her down and let her know. It would be the right thing to do, him handing her the key to her freedom. It was understood between them that if one found the slightest scrap of spellwork pertaining to the other, they’d share it immediately.

That he didn’t do just that only made it worse, his own plight. When had he started to pray that the release they so desired would never be found; that, as terrible and difficult as this existence was, it would remain, binding her close to him? The same night, ages ago, they’d become lovers? Or earlier, when they were first bound together by the intrusive godlings?

Not that it mattered. Here was her cure, written in ink still as black as the day it had been put to parchment.

Carefully, sans the usual code he recorded such things in, he noted down the spell, marked the page in the huge leather and iron bound book, and let it close with a muffled clap of thunder. He stood wearily, stretching the aches out of muscles locked from remaining in a single position for far too many hours, and extinguished the candles with the crook of a finger.

She’d ascended to bed already, he noted, as he padded quietly through the dark library. Her desk, secluded much like his, was in darkness, all wicks of the tall beeswax candle cold. He sighed, and left the athenaeum. Once, she would’ve sought him out to inform him that she was giving up their search for the night, and he would’ve followed willingly, eager to burn away frustration with intimate contact, dark and passionate, before dawn brought the inevitable Change with it, and he was forced to slip away into the castle’s shadows.

Allaidh stood in the door of the bedroom they generally shared, watching as moonlight stroked over the smooth bare skin the sheet didn’t shield. Móra was beautiful, though not by traditional standards. Her eyes were too large, too slanted, like a cat’s; too green, like those of the Fae race. Her face wasn’t soft and fragile, but clean and sharp; her cheekbones too high, her jaw revealing too much stubborn independence, while her soft mouth was far too willing to deliver remarks like razors, cutting deep and leaving open wounds. She was ‘too’ much of everything, his old enemy—his lover.

He moved on silent feet into the room, shedding his clothes as he went, and slipped beneath the blanket. She stirred slightly when he looped his arms around to draw her back against him, and settled deeper into sleep with her head resting on his shoulder, his face buried in her wild titian curls.

 

 

Móra woke at dawn, disturbed by his departure, and the brush of fur against her bare skin. With a yawn, and a long, languid stretch, she opened her eyes to the pale light that had begun to pour into the room. Surprise registered, in a sleepy way. He must have been tired, if he had slept so late. Usually, Allaidh was up and gone long before the sun’s rays reached their window. Now that she thought of it, it occurred to her that he really must have been exhausted—it was a rare night that he didn’t wake her at least once in the night with a kiss or caress.

She wondered at the pang of disappointment that caused.

She rose, uncaring of her lack of covering, and went to the table near the window. A pot of tea stood steaming there, flanked by two empty cups, and a small basket of buns. The castle didn’t want them to starve, after all. The thought brought with it the usual burn of anger, and bitterness.

Trapped. It was a word, and a state of being she despised. It brought back echoes of a time she refused to think about, refused to let rule her life.

Allaidh had more or less accepted it, in that quiet way of his. She knew his philosophy: tolerate what one cannot defeat, until a way could be found around the problem. But she couldn’t be so calm about it. It was different for a man, especially a mage—society was run by men, and they hoarded power and influence, at the expense of the ones their so-called ‘honor’ required they were to protect, and care for above all else: their women and children.  Few men, in her experience, possessed any of the noblesse oblige they all preached, and many male mages were worse even than that, with their power and sense of entitlement.

Women had been forced to accept less for centuries and she—she would not bow down to anyone who might threaten her right to run her own life, to make her own path.

Except, of course, for the fact that she was trapped, and not by a man, but with a mage.  

Draining the teacup, Móra stalked to the wardrobe and pulled out a riding habit, donning it with impatience. The sun was rising on a beautiful day; the gelding in the stable would be pleased, and so would she, to work off the extra energy of confinement with a long ride, followed by a good grooming.

Móra didn’t notice the silver-amber eyes in the shadows, watching her departure from the castle.

 

 

Conrì gazed silently in the water mirror, as the occupants of the castle followed their usual daytime routines, the Sorceress with her grey horse in the courtyard; the Mage in his canine form, pacing before a window in an unfurnished drawing room on the uppermost story of the castle. The curses on them were complex, and tightly interwoven, the result of their own magic and the interference of _sìthiche_ power where it ought not be.

But, the first of the antidotes had been secreted one of the books piled on one of the desks in the library, and the second was coming—it required more research, now that the blasted mage had fallen in love with the female. Love always twisted magic, as did any strong, all-consuming emotion.

The woman, the Prince suspected, was also enamored of the man. They were lovers—though that could mean nothing, really—and…well. Humans were difficult to read, especially when they themselves didn’t know what they wanted. But, with luck, her own confusion would keep the magic from rebounding again, and the spell would free her.

 

 

Tomorrow, he’d decided. Tomorrow evening, the moment he had his human form again, he would give her the spell. Selfish, perhaps, to keep her freedom from her, but it was only a day. Only hours, really. Tonight he was stealing for himself, a final chance to take all he needed, to soak up as many memories as he could, to hold him against the cold that would assail him the moment she stepped from the gates—the gods only knew how long it would take him, searching alone for his own cure, able to work nights only.

The sun was slipping below the horizon now; his eyes were fixed on the flaming ball of it, the reds and purples and peaches of the sunset he remembered pale and oddly distorted through the wolf’s eyes. Only a few more minutes, and night would be here, and the Change would reverse.

She watched him watch the sun from the doorway, as sometimes (when she could find him; when she could approach quietly enough) she did. The wolf was big and black, front paws braced on the windowsill, surging forward into the burst of orange-red, as though his anxiety would speed the sun on its way. Allaidh was as fierce and wild-looking as a wolf as he was as a man, but in this form he couldn’t seem to hide his desperation nearly as well—the same desperation that clawed at her.

His head turned a fraction when she padded across the room to stand at his side, acknowledging her presence, then turned back to fix his gaze once again on the sinking sun, willing it down as the sky slowly darkened.

He shuddered slightly when her hand came, slowly, down to rest on his coarse-furred back, his attention once again diverted from the sky. She’d never touched him before, she realized abruptly. Not in this shape. His fur was long and thick, not silky like his human hair, but neither was it wiry, like the gelding’s mane. She stroked it, discovering the second, softer layer of black fur beneath—there was the silk she’d looked for, hiding.

The last of the sun slipped below the horizon—with a wrench, and the brief burn of magic, Allaidh stood before her once again, her hand still resting on his black-robed back.

“What are you doing?” he inquired, his voice a deep rasp. The question, despite its wording, wasn’t accusatory, but gentle, almost wistful.

“Come; dinner’s ready,” she said, instead of addressing his question—there was no answer.

He followed quietly, his soft leather boots making no sound on the flagstones. And after the meal, he followed her just as quietly.

“No,” he said abruptly, catching her hand, leading her away from the library. “No, tonight, let’s be selfish.” Tomorrow was soon enough to lose her—he wasn’t giving up his final night of company for more endless, dusty tomes.

She went without protest, intrigued by this strange mood he was in. His kiss was intense, both marauding and savoring, while his hands slid and stroked along her ribcage, down, to cup the slender swell of her hips with his long, lean-fingered hands.

There was no fire in their hearth—cool shadows and the beginnings of moonlight filtered through the deepening darkness, coloring their lovemaking, scented by the snow that was coming, riding in on the wind. The air, crisp and sharp, heated, and grew dense.

She went over the first peak at full speed, his mouth on hers, muffling the tiny feminine shriek that sought freedom. Then the mood changed again, as she went boneless, his hands going soft and his touch light. His lips seduced, coaxed her back up, so that tension built again, gently this time, coiling in her belly like a promise.

The moon was nearly at its zenith when he finally allowed sleep, and then, only a few hours, before he woke her by flinging her headfirst into release. By dawn, when he slipped away, she could only wonder what had possessed him, before sleep reached up and claimed her again.

 

 

Late afternoon, though, brought with it the answer to her unvoiced question. The shock masked the pain for the first few moments, so that she could only stand there, the scrap of paper fluttering out of abruptly lax fingers to land beside the chair. And then the pain of betrayal crept in, dispelling shock and ripping like a dervish through the languor lovemaking had induced, the one that had clung like gold dust throughout the day.

 _How long had he known?_ Móra thought, bitter anguish rising in her throat like bile. _How long had he horded away this key, gloating quietly?_

Bending, she scooped up the scrap, and strode back to the bedroom she and her traitorous mage had shared for so many years. A small satchel was retrieved from beneath the tall bed, two changes of clothing and the few important things of hers scattered around the room were tucked into the bag with the exquisite care of the truly furious. The sky was just beginning to turn bloody red when she exited the castle, bag in hand, heading to the stable.

 

 

High above, secreted away in an unfurnished room, the wolf watched her progress across the courtyard with wide eyes, taking in the bag she held and the brutal straightness of her spine. Silver-amber eyes flickered briefly to the sun’s position—high, still, for all the light was changing—and then the wolf turned and raced out of the room.

She’d found the spell, and leapt immediately to the truth. The knowledge burned through him, its acidic heat soon to be no match for the soul-deep cold.

He skidded to a halt on the icy flagstones of the courtyard as she emerged, the grey’s reins in hand. The horse snorted, tossed up his head, but he was a largely unflappable nag, gentling at his mistress’s soothing hand on his thick neck.

“Out of my way, Allaidh.” _How did she manage to keep her voice so steady?_ he wondered—her eyes were burning a hole straight through him, yet her voice was as cool as ice. He shook his head slowly, side to side, eyes pinned on hers. He couldn’t let her go, not like this. Not when she believed the worst of him—not when the worst was true. “You’ll not stop me again.”

He could only stare at her mutely, willing her to believe in him enough to simply wait ‘til twilight, just a few minutes more—

“ _Anmoch bi ann aotrom_ ,” she intoned softly, staring right at him—the first words of the freeing spell. He snarled impotently, wishing, now more than ever before, he could be a man before the sun sank from sight. As it was, he was powerless in this damnable body to stop her.

“ _Claoidhteach dèainte socrach_.” She took a step forward; he one back. Power began to whirl through the air, lifting some of the snow that hadn’t yet melted from the ground and flinging it about, like an angry child.

“ _Geur mailse_ ,” and he was backing toward the gates, his feet crunching on cold snow-crust, while she simply kept coming, her long wizard’s robes flapping gently in the wind she was generating.

“ _Thoir á tuathál ubaír mi_.”

Light flared, blinding bright, forcing him to look away, while the scent of wild magic—sìthiche magic—burned his nostrils, choking him. He could feel the reverberations of the various binds snap and crumble as they were unlocked and flung outwards to be reabsorbed into the universe. The gate slammed open, allowing her to lead her gelding out without a glance behind, while it contained him—a lash of the power flying flung him back when he attempted to leap after her, to stay her the few minutes he so desperately required until he could explain. He was sent sliding roughly over the paving stones of the ground, scrabbling with paws and claws for purchase. Before he could even regain his feet, the gates slammed shut again, with a resounding boom.

Stiffly, wincing at bruises acquired from such intimate contact with the granite blocks that made up the ground, he climbed back to his feet. The cold was creeping in, slowly, insidiously, to settle in his bones like a vicious illness.

The first howl rose up, an eerie, echoing sound that drifted oddly on the flat pre-storm air, so inconsolable that the wolves in the forest didn’t, for once, join in its lament, but remained respectfully silent until night had fallen completely and the grief became private and internal.

 

 

There was thunder that night, rumbling angrily through the sky, shot through by the occasional lightning bolt, while Conrì paced the candlelit halls of his palace, face as dark as the midnight sky, twisted into a fierce scowl, curses dropping now and then from his lips in time with the lightning.

Free of the castle, she was. Free even, of the spells that had been placed on her. But the exchange of magicks had splintered the two mages’ souls. The fragments, it seemed, had embedded in each other, forcing the Sorceress to share her companion’s fate.

Somehow, he had to manipulate her back to the castle. He’d actually be called upon to appear, _unglamoured_ , to their eyes, and unravel the confusing tangle of magic so that he could return the spirit splinters to their original owners before something terrible happened. The male, at least, no matter how badly he was taking the departure of his mate, was still contained, and not wandering the landscape risking further damage to both soul and magic. The female, however…

With another muted snarl, the Sìthiche Prince turned, and stalked back to the water mirror on the dais at the head of the hall. Damn the meddling children who’d put him in this position.

 

 

The burning mixture of anger and betrayal had kept her warm for the first few hours, the first few miles, despite the rain and the thundering storm. But a chill invaded slowly, numbing her down to the bones. It wasn’t until nearly dawn, when she rode into a village, and rented a room over the tavern, that she realized she could not feel warmth, no matter how hot the fire in the hearth, nor how many blankets she wrapped around herself. The cold was internal—dimly, barely, she could feel the warmth of her skin, but it was through such a layer of solid ice that it was a tiny thing, unhelpful.

The spell hadn’t worked—not entirely. She had, at least, her freedom, but the cold was almost overwhelming enough to send her running back to the castle, back to the warmth she hoped Allaidh could still provide. But her pride had still been left to her; he’d deceived her: held back information that, freely given, could have liberated her completely. She would not return willingly to that place, not even for warmth. Móra had the run of the world now; she could seek the aid of other, more senior mages—Roarke, the mentor of both Allaidh and herself, or the Demon Mage, Alasdair, to the North, Iùlmhor to the West and there were other ways, as well. Texts like the Leabhar, once inaccessible but now open to her.

 

 

The rain was his. The thunder and lightning he’d no part in, but the rain, soft and very nearly silent, was the sky’s tribute to the heavy feeling of shame and regret that tightened like bands around his chest. He didn’t bother with a fire he wouldn’t feel, nor with the library—not tonight. It no longer represented hope, however faint, and he desperately needed hope. Nor could he bear the surrounds of their bedroom, and so he paced instead, high in his bare room.

Somewhere, deep inside, there was probably anger. Likely, some part of him railed against her too-quick judgment; demanded the chance to justify his actions. He knew himself well—he wasn’t one, whatever she thought of him, to give in to Fate quietly—and part of him was furious. But that part, with its welcome burn of emotion, had been crushed beneath a glacier that wouldn’t melt away until she returned. And she wouldn’t—he knew her nearly as well as himself. Pride simply wouldn’t let her return to the scene of her entrapment and his treachery. So he was left numb, conscious only that shame and loss were his, that they were slowly crushing him.

By dawn, exhaustion was dragging at his temples, his shoulders were aching with tension. The Change was a jolt, and the fiery burn of wild magic in the air, and then he was wolf, and still he paced.

 

 

“Lady Mage,” a deep, impatient voice sounded behind her. She whirled the gelding—there was power in that voice, a subtle compulsion to halt, and she wasn’t going to fall under it.

The speaker was male, but no man. Wild hair, long and black as night, flowed freely over broad shoulders, framing a fierce, strong face that wasn’t quite human. Vibrant green eyes, brighter than her own, were slanted at the corners, the nose aquiline and elegant, the lips thin and with the definite potential to be cruel. Markings, similar to the mage marks that had been tattooed on her back when her training had been complete, curled thinly along the lines of his high cheekbones; these were no tattoo’d embellishments, but nature’s touch. He wasn’t mounted, striding from the depths of the forest through on foot, a path of green springing up in his wake.

 _Sìthiche_ , then, a faery, and an extremely powerful one, if his passage could coax forth life in the dead of winter.

“My Lord,” she returned with a respectful nod. He accepted the reverence as his due, and offered a long fingered hand to the grey, which stood very still, head held humbly low. The gelding nudged the Sithiche’s long fingers gently, and in reward those fingers stroked the velvet of his nose.

“I come to you for two reasons, mage; the first to apologize for the actions of two of my kind against you and your former companion. Your plight has only very recently come to my attention.” He waited a moment, letting her absorb. “The second is to correct what has been wrought. And for that to occur, you must return to the castle you were imprisoned in. Briefly,” he assured, when what little color was in her face leeched away.

“I apologize, my Lord; I must decline.” Her tone was frigid, indicative, he knew, of the magic that had rebounded, forcing the effect her mate still felt upon her, but it also spoke clearly of the monumental anger burning beneath the magical ice. “I seek the aid of human mages now: my mentor, and his greatest student.”

“I must insist, mage. This is not a matter for petty grudges, and even Roarke and Alasdair’s combined powers will avail you little. You bear splinters of his soul, and he yours. If left thus, you will both perish, and turn the world upon its ear as you do. For the good of all,” he continued, tightening his hand on the grey’s bridle, “you _will_ return.”

Móra’s lips tightened, and her eyes narrowed. “I have little reason to trust your kind, Lord; two of yours imprisoned me for nearly ten years.”

“We are incapable of lies.”

“But not trickery. Forgive me when I say yours are well known for it.”

He scowled at her, nostrils flaring in indignation. “An oath, I imagine, would go a long way to reassuring you of my benevolent intentions.”

“Perhaps,” she replied guardedly. “What would you be swearing on?”

“My name.”

That gave her pause. A name was a powerful thing, which could be used against one under the right circumstances, and could be dangerous as well to the one who sought to use it. Mages often took aliases, sometimes as many as three or four, and rarely ever allowed others to know their real name. For instance, only Allaidh knew hers, and, as far as she knew, she his, exchanged mostly by accident when they were both apprentices under Roarke. Knowing the name of a _sìthiche_ , especially high ranking, had the potential to be very dangerous indeed.

“Not my true name, mage. Be at ease. My public name, which is powerful enough.”

Warily, she nodded, agreeing.

“I am Conrì of the _Sìthiche._ On my name—”

“No!” A faery, no matter how high ranking, was as nothing compared to their Prince—even his ‘public’ name was dangerous, especially in the world of magic— _not_ a name to be taken lightly, or invoked without great cause. “No vow.”

One wing-shaped brow rose slightly, but he nodded. “You will return to the castle.”

It certainly wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” she allowed, irritation hinting in her voice. “I will return. How long will it take for you to put things back to rights?”

“I am not precisely sure. The time and procedure varies for individual cases. No longer than a sennight, at the very most, I should think.”

Seven days, trapped with Allaidh. Again. “Fine.”

“I will meet you there, then.”

 

 

The castle was the same. She didn’t know why she’d expected it to change—two days had passed since she’d stalked out, no more. But it had felt far longer; the cold had made those days drag endlessly. The tall gates opened silently, like the maw of some great demon, and shut behind her again with a muffled thump.

The gelding went into his old stall, settling down with his usual aplomb. And then, devoid of any more tasks, she turned to the castle itself.

The front hall was empty, the bedroom equally so, though his clothes still hung in the armoire. Too, the library was devoid of life. His desk, though, showed signs—no fewer than three tomes lay open, and sheets of paper were scattered about, bearing notes in his elegant scrawl. Still, there was no sign of him. With a glance out the window—the sun hung low in the sky, dying the barren winter landscape red-gold—she turned upstairs, heading for the drawing room he’d denuded the evening after the first Change had taken him by surprise, that first dawn years before. As the stables had become sanctuary of sorts for her, the bare room was his, with its western-facing windows showing him the moment he would be a man again.

The door made not a sound when she pushed it slowly open. Light poured in, turning the stone floor to gold, gilding strips of the walls. He was a shadow in the corner of the room, curled slightly, back to the wall. With the sight of him, warmth came back with a tide of relief, sending a shudder down her spine. Asleep still, the wolf twitched, his body relaxing.

There was, at the moment, no reason to wake him. That she’d never known him to sleep in his lupine form didn’t mean he didn’t—who knew what he filled his inhuman days with? From the first, he’d never shared that aspect with her. So, until the sun was beneath the horizon, he could sleep. It would simply give her more time to untangle the knot of rage and betrayal that made her icy disdain so difficult. Head held high, she swept in, settling neatly against the opposite wall, so that she faced the wolf.

Long minutes passed; the sun sank with maddening slowness, and the room grew dim. Allaidh slept, limp and unmoving with exhaustion, only the steady up-down-in-out of his chest assurance that he still lived. She considered the depth of his sleep idly—in all the years she’d known him, he had slept very lightly, sometimes as little as a sleepy mumble bringing him to full awareness. Certainly, she wouldn’t have been able to enter a room and settle herself on the floor of it, without a thought for stealth, not then.

What had changed, between then and now? Could the allegedly missing soul-shards already have physical consequences? She hadn’t noticed any, but then, she was experiencing the chill of his curse.

The last of the sun disappeared below the darkness of the earth, leaving behind its nimbus of pale gold and lavender. Magic burnt the air, revealing her black-clad companion, slumped against the wall, head bowed over his chest.

Móra frowned—it was heavy sleep indeed, if even that kind of Change didn’t wake him. She rose, unsteady after nearly an hour of waiting for the sun to finish its descent, and crossed the room to him. Bruises rested under his eyes, monstrously dark in his pale face. Lines of strain bracketed his mouth, drew together his eyebrows, even asleep.

“Everyone reacts to having portions of their soul separated differently,”  
the deep voice of the Sìthiche Prince said from behind her. Her breath caught in her throat at the announcement; his sudden, unheralded presence had startled her badly enough that she’d had to curb the instinct that screamed _jump!_ “Between the curse on him, the fracture, and the weight of guilt and anger, his body has chosen sleep to in an effort to regenerate its former levels of energy.”

“Will he wake?” It was always a consideration—magic users had been known to simply slide into unnaturally heavy sleep and fade away if they expended too much energy. It wasn’t a fate he deserved, if it could be escaped.

“Certainly. It won’t have helped that he has paced unceasingly since the evening you walked out those doors.”

Her chin came up, pale green eyes flashed. “We may hurl blame and reasons at one another, sir—we grew up together, trained together. It is our business how we treat the other. Respectfully, you have no right to—”

“Lady Mage,” Conrì said, one hand rising to stay her tirade. “It was hardly my intention to insult you, or imply blame. I stated only fact—he has paced unceasingly, when he wasn’t pouring over useless tomes. Your departure served as a catalyst for this behavior. I have no experience judging human relationships.”

Ire yet unvented, she choked back more words to the same effect, and turned back to the long man who sprawled at her feet. “Shall I wake him, then?”

“Let him sleep,” the Sìthiche Prince replied. “He’ll need the rest, and I have things to prepare before I can do anything for either of you. I will need a lock of his hair, though.”

It was a simple matter to sever some of the thick darkness that pooled over Allaidh’s shoulders and hand it over to the faery.

“It will take time for these preparations to be completed. I can take him to your bedroom, if you think he would be more comfortable.”

 “I’ll deal with him.”

 The Prince nodded, and turned toward the door. He hesitated, looked back. “You are… _Caigeán_. The two of you—I do not know how humans put it. Mated? Paired. It is not a bad thing.”

 She looked up, fey green eyes gleaming in the dim light. “If I hadn’t known that already, My Lord, it would very definitely have fallen under ‘meddling’. And we use ‘ _caigeán_ ’ as well.”

 His lips twitched at the corner, one brow rose slightly. “Ah. My apologies, then. I leave you to your _compánach_.” Life-partner.

 She stared after him, frowning, before turning back to Allaidh.

 

 

He woke warm, curled around her, face buried in her hair. She fit so well in his arms that for a moment, he wondered if the last days had only been a dream. _No_ , he decided a moment later, when she stirred, and squirmed onto her other side so that they lay facing one another, her face pressed to his shoulder. _No, not a dream_ , he thought again, shifting to accommodate her.

But she was back, in his arms. For this moment, it was enough.

Another flare of _sìthiche_ magic caught his attention. It had been that which had woken him. A frown formed, tugging his brows together, and he levered himself up slightly, braced on an elbow. Slowly, senses sharp and magic sliding out to investigate, he untangled himself from her and drew on trousers. Torn between seeking out the potential threat and remaining to keep her safe, he crouched beside the bed, half-turned toward the door, the fingers of one hand laced with those of one of hers. The muffled click of boot heels could be heard on the flagstones, approaching.

Within moments, Conrì opened the door, green eyes locking immediately on Allaidh. Given pause by the mage’s protective stance and unblinking stare, the Prince raised his hands in the universal sign of peace.

“What do you want here, Lord?” Allaidh didn’t rise from his position, but every muscle coiled like a spring, ready for any action he might choose to perform. His tone, despite the use of the honorific, had little to do with respect.

A wolf indeed, Conrì thought. One of the wary loners who lived high in the Northern Mountains, distrustful of humans and _sìthiche_ alike, guarding mates and territory with unrivaled ferocity.

“To undo the wrongs two of my wards have wrought. Your situation has only recently been brought to my attention.”

“Who are you, that you are the one sent to undo those wrongs?”

“I am Conrì.”

One of the mage’s eyebrows quirked under the fall of his loosed dark hair. “Our lot is bad enough to warrant the Prince of Faeries himself?”

“With all of the magical rebounds, your souls have splintered, and exchanged. You have shards of her soul; she yours.”

Any of the sardonic humor that may have been loitering in the mage’s face fled. “It is correctible?”

“With effort and care, yes. Yours is not the worst instance I’ve seen.” _Quite_ lurked unspoken at the end of his sentence, and Allaidh heard it clearly.

“From what I can tell,” the Prince continued, “you took the brunt of the backlash. The damage done to you is greater than what was done to her.”

The water mirror had shown, clearly, that the man had thrust her out of the way before he’d even realized where the magical interference had come from, and it had whisked them both here before either could react—it was, perhaps, the only thing that had saved the two young _sìthiche_ from a collaborative retribution.

“You intend to untangle the curses first.” Slowly, Allaidh rose from his crouch, surreptitiously tugging the sheet higher over Móra.

“Yes, that was my plan.”

“Hers are gone—I felt them come undone myself. Can you repair the splintering on her soul first, or do my afflictions need to be removed as well?” The inevitable, then, would not be prolonged—she could go free while the Prince either succeeded or failed to aid him.

“Considering that the two of you are…” Conrì considered his words, and restarted. “It would be better, I think, if she stayed until we have done all we can.” The last thing he needed was the onset of despondency her departure would herald. The mage’s situation was dire enough as it was, without fighting his need for his mate.

Allaidh nodded, accepting that pronouncement.

“I will leave you alone, then. The preparations should be done by morning. Goodnight.” With a nod farewell, the Faerie Prince backed out of the room again, pulling the door shut with him.

For a long moment, Allaidh stood still, frowning at the door without seeing it. Then, a sigh shuddering out of his body, he shed his trousers and slid carefully back into the bed, drawing her close again, and waited for dawn.

 

 

Conrì’s first attempt at unraveling the curses that held Allaidh was an unmitigated disaster, which resulted in the Prince swearing at length in the Old Language, the wolf watching quietly, sitting with stoic patience even as wild magic singed him ineffectually. When the sun finally sank, he stood as a man, shaking off the discomfort with a shrug of his shoulders, shaking his head to try to relieve the ringing headache.

Disgust stamped in his eyes, the Sìthiche Prince waved him away, and mumbled something about ‘phytoplankton’—whatever that might be. Frustrated, dismayed, Allaidh took advantage of Conrì’s dismissal, and went to hunt up Móra.

The library was where he found her, naturally, leaning over a tome and jotting down notes in a feminine hand. She glanced up at his approach, just long enough for her green eyes to narrow warningly and her pointed little chin to rise slightly. He let an arrogant eyebrow rise, challenging the warning. Then her eyes dropped down, and he waited, content to stare at the top of her head until she at last looked up, knowing she felt his gaze all the while.

“What do you want?” she finally demanded, breaking the silent battle of wills.

“Oh, well, what could I possibly want from you?” he inquired sardonically, hitching a hip on the edge of her desk.

Color rose to her cheeks even as her lips tightened. “I have no idea, I’m sure.”

“You left without letting me explain.”

Fury, fresh and violent, jumped to her eyes. “You can’t have expected me to stay, not when you deliberately concealed the key to my freedom—”

“No, Móra, I didn’t expect you to stay,” he growled, “I wasn’t even going to ask you to.”

“Just hold me here against my will, then!” she spat back, springing to her feet.

He stood as well. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her, to rage out his reason to her, let them steal the acidic words from her mouth. They would shock her, he knew, those three little words—just as he knew he could count on one hand the number of people who had actually given her the love she’d fought for and been denied until she’d finally stopped looking. It was almost tempting, to see her eyes go wide, her soft mouth to drop open as though to protest it. But just as he knew they would stun her, he knew they were the last words she’d ever believe, and the surest way to lose her again.

So he choked them back, let his eyes go shuttered. “I expected you to give me a chance to explain.”

“Explain away that you’ve been hoarding away a spell that could help me? What do you think could possibly explain that?”

“I found it two nights before you left,” he said, voice icily distant and eminently reasonable. “One night, I took for myself. You would have had your freedom the moment the sun went down the second night, and an explanation to go with it.”

“I don’t believe you.” She enunciated the words carefully, her voice just as far away as his.

It was the last thing he’d been expecting—anger, yes, irritation, certainly. He’d almost hoped for shock, and consternation wouldn’t have displeased him. But outright disbelief…

How could he reply to that?

“You—you think I would lie to you? About _that_?” He didn’t lie—ever. There was no point, not when simply saying nothing was easier and created no traps.

Except, it seemed, when it did.

“Yes, I think you would lie, if it suited your purposes. I find myself wondering what else you may have lied about.” She watched as what little color had been in his face drained away, leaving his silvered gold eyes dark and bright with fury in his face.

“Damn you, Móra, for letting the past blind you to the present,” Allaidh snarled, and stalked away, too furious to stand in her company a moment longer without wrapping his fingers ‘round her throat and throttling sense into her.

 

 

The second day went only marginally better. By twilight, Conrì announced that the ‘cold’ part of the curse had been shed. On the other hand, he admitted, the Change would be a good bit more difficult, as Allaidh’s personality was exceedingly wolfish.

“If you can’t put your temper from mind, I can’t do anything for you. It’s twisting the magic around, and making it impossible for me to even see the strands, much less unravel them.”

Watching the man stalk from the hall—the best room, the Prince had decided, for potentially dangerous magic, as it was largely empty, vast, and wasn’t too near the magical texts held in the library—Conrì silently repeated his conclusion. The children had been dead on when they chose a wolf for the mage and tonight the wolf was particularly snappish. Temper had flickered in his eyes throughout the day, and occasionally raised his hackles. The inescapable use of _sìthiche_ magic, which never sat easily on human shoulders and often stung when applied, had only furthered the anger simmering within him, until, by the time he Changed back, Conrì could do nothing else than send him away for the evening, with instructions to come back with a cool and clear mind the next day—a command, he suspected, that only irritated the man that much more.

 

 

Holding a fist-sized ball of fire burning at head-level was a trick used by master mages, usually given to hotheaded youngsters with more power than control. At the moment, Allaidh thought, the description fit. Five or six of the balls floated around the empty room, directed into patterns, occasionally dividing to spawn more spheres of flame, directed from where he sat, leaning against the wall, controlling them deftly.

It was relaxing, in its own way. The controlled exercising of power, like playing chess, or chopping wood. The anger that was currently curling through his bloodstream, fueled, if he allowed himself to be honest, by pain, was being put to good use. Fire in this form wasn’t destructive; energy was the fuel, not air and wood. Without thinking much of it, he brought one close again, forced it to compact, and began building a crystal around the burning ember. Layer after layer of clear particles gathered from the air itself assembled and coalesced, until a tear-shaped jewel hovered there, gleaming with internal fire. Looking at it critically for a moment, Allaidh decided it passed muster, and pocketed it—when this mess was over, he would have it set in silver, and drape it around her neck himself. Bringing another ball close, to repeat the process, he considered the latest developments.

Móra didn’t believe him when he told her the truth. Clinically, he studied the twist of pain that tightened bands of iron around his chest. Still contained in their balls, the flames flickered madly, fighting for freedom. Ruthlessly, he quashed the reactions. Fine. He could live with her disbelief, he could even combat it—simply repeat the truth enough, and eventually, she would accept it.

And there was the problem. He didn’t have ‘eventually’. He had, at most, a sennight. Probably less, to convince her that he was truthful, and that he was in love with her. A task made none too easy by her stubborn personality and her antipathy towards men, towards him, for their years of enforced closeness.

With a gesture, he extinguished the little lights that floated around his sanctuary, and rose with a fluid motion. She would be in the library, and if not there, bed.

 

 

Was she letting what was behind color what was now? She sat and she brooded. Her father and brothers had used her power from the first to further themselves—it had manifested, before training, as a talent for finding what had been lost. She had made the mistake of thinking that they loved her for herself, instead of as a tool—that mistake was corrected very early. Roarke had come when she was ten, and effectively bought her from them, before whisking her back to the Northern Highlands. He’d been the first man she’d trusted after her father, and perhaps the only. Did she trust Allaidh?

Yes. With her body, certainly, and perhaps even with her life—she didn’t doubt he would protect her at any cost. Hadn’t he taken the brunt of the _sìthiche_ curses, after all? But…with her emotions?

With her (she winced at the thought—she, who had always been particularly skeptical of the thing poets called love) heart?

No, not completely. But a part of her, steadily growing in size and strength, desperately wanted to.

It wasn’t sound that alerted her to his presence, or the scent of mage-magic. It was the whisper of air, the prickling sense of alertness that always invaded her body when he was near, and the weight of his eyes. She looked up, into those eyes, wary of the hardness that would have, if she’d been looking closely enough, warned her yesterday that he had been spoiling for a fight. There was, she noted with relief, none of it.

“Móra, you work much too hard,” Allaidh said, rounding the corner of her desk. Taking her hands, ignoring the little tugs with which she sought their freedom, he drew her up, and led her away from the desk.

“Allaidh—”

“Hush. You’ve bruises beneath your eyes.”

He led her to their bedroom, still shared despite the events of the past several days. Deftly, he drew her in, shut and locked the door behind her, the key sliding into one deep pocket. Still blinking with shock, she found herself seated on the bed, her clothes being removed and neatly folded, her long hair being brushed out of the braid she’d put it in that morning. A coil of heat tightened in her belly, but for the most part, curiosity was her leading concern. He’d been gentle before, but no one in recent memory had taken care of her like this. It was…pleasant.

Hard, callous-roughened hands slid lightly over her shoulders, drew her back into the softness of sheets and pillows. He joined her in bed, looping his arms around her and settling her back against him so that his warmth surrounded her.

“Go to sleep,” was murmured in her ear, one of his hands lifting to stroke soothingly along her side, from ribcage to the curve of her hip. “You’re exhausted.”

And, to her surprise, she did sleep, until dawn threatened and the warmth behind her shifted away. Still mostly asleep, she mumbled a protest, and followed.

“No, love. Go back to sleep.”

She groped, and found one of his hands. “Come back to bed.”

“I would, if it was possible. But I doubt you would appreciate a wolf in your bed.” The heat and smell of _sìthiche_ power burned, and the hand she held became a paw. Gently but insistently, it pulled away. For a moment, a warm, dry, canine nose pushed against that hand, and his tongue curled out to swipe once along her palm.

Then he was gone.

 

 

One by one, the days slipped away. On the fourth day, Conrì broke the spell that forced him to Change, with an explosion of backlash whipping round the room like a horde of demons until the Sìthiche Prince took it in hand and folded it neatly into submission, a scrap of parchment becoming flame and then mere ash.

On the fifth, the Prince began the arduous task of removing the splinters of her soul from their resting places in Allaidh’s. Long, painful work, it took nearly three days for that alone.

Allaidh, meanwhile, was growing increasingly desperate. His time, as he was acutely aware, was running out, and she seemed no more ready to hear and accept his declaration than she had been at the first. If anything, the looks she sent him were far warier. It was maddening, that she would consent to share her body for years, and stubbornly refuse to trust him with her heart.

The ninth day dawned clear, after a night spent awake, with what seemed several gaping holes ripped through the middle of him that nothing could fill, not even her. They rose together. It was her turn to have the splinters removed.

She knew what was going to be done. She’d watched Allaidh go through it, seen him go dead white, and then whiter as each splinter—three in total—was removed, one a day. She had slept next to him, hearing the muffled gasps of breath he’d tried very hard to hide from her, felt the trembling of his body, even as his face remained as serene as he could keep it. It wasn’t the pain that frightened her; mages learned early that many spells extracted a physical price, and there were plenty of techniques that eased the mind away from agony; it was the physical effect of that pain. Her body was smaller, her heart weaker, than Allaidh’s. What a full-grown man could take without serious damage could kill a woman her size. And dying before all of his soul splinters were out of her, taking them with her beyond whatever barrier Death might be, was too terrible to conceive.

“You are ready?” Conrì inquired gravely. There were new lines in his face, and beneath his markings, he, too, was pale. He was still amazed at the sheer level of destruction his young subjects had brought about in their play, and at the unflinching perseverance that drove these two human mages to free themselves of it. If the entire species had even a third of their determination, he wondered at the heights of achievement humans as a whole could reach.

She nodded. The Prince gestured her to lie down on the table. Before she could attempt to clamber up, two hard hands framed her hips, lifting her easily, and helping her settle on the hard, sturdy wood.

“Móra,” Allaidh’s voice was very soft, his lips brushing her ear. “I claim you as my _compánach_ , one and only.”

Her eyes widened on his.

“I love you. And I intend we Bond, the soonest we can. So you must live, my love.” He pressed his lips to hers, tasted shock. And stepped back, nodding to Conrì.

“Allaidh—”  

Pain swept over her head like a tide, the first wave in a storm of them, as the Faerie Prince began.

 

 

Allaidh paced, down the hall, past where the Sìthiche Prince bent over his prone mate, then back, toward them again until he’d passed them for the other corner’s shadows. Her pain was palpable, beating at him. He had a wisp of magic curled around her wrist, keeping him informed of her pulse, that the moment it attempted to falter he could bolster it. He could sense that her mind was elsewhere, probably thinking up ways to convince him he wasn’t in love with her at all, that it was the years of enforced companionship, or the sex, or perhaps something spicy he’d eaten.

Hours passed. The first of the splinters was large, and embedded only shallowly, and was extracted easily. The second, however, was very small, and had speared deep. It was that one that threatened her life.

When it was necessary, he put his magic behind Conrì’s, adding power to the faerie’s. Other times, he stood, one hand centered over her heart and kept it from stuttering out. Neither thought of pausing, even as day slipped into night, and the night grew old. It was clear that she wouldn’t survive a long drawn-out extraction like the one Allaidh had gone through, even as her body and theirs wept for rest.

It was dawn when Conrì at last grasped the wily second splinter and began, slowly and with infinite care, drawing it out. As the sun left the safety of the horizon, he coaxed it free. With barely a hitch, he reintroduced the shards that he’d taken from Allaidh, and watched with a stern eye as they slid home into their places before he pulled away, physically and magically.

“She is whole,” the Prince managed. “Send her deep to sleep—she needs it.”

Without hesitation, the mage did as he was instructed.

“Now yours,” Conrì said. Eyeing the _sìthiche_ ’s pallor under his facial markings, Allaidh nodded with hesitation, but said nothing. _Sìthiche_ magic burned against him again, searing deep as it took the Prince straight to his soul, and the fissure within began closing, slowly but surely.

They both staggered when the Prince pulled away, both ashen and gasping.

“It is done,” Conrì stated unnecessarily, hands braced on the edge of the table. His thin lips quirked as he looked up. Allaidh was in a similar state. “I will take my leave of you and your _compánach_ , and allow you to get some very much needed rest. I know I intend to do the same.”

“You have my thanks, Lord, and that of my _compánach_ , as well. We are in your debt.”

“No, if anything, it falls to my own unruly wards, and thus I am in yours.”

“Settle it, then, by coming to our Bonding ceremony.”

The Sìthiche Prince laughed, a full-throated, curiously bell-like sound that belied the utter exhaustion in his too-green eyes. “First, lad, you’ve to convince her to have you. When you’ve managed that, send word with the wind. I’ll come.”

 

 

Two days slipped by before Móra sat up, abruptly bolt awake. A heavy arm—Allaidh’s, of course—dropped to her lap from its original place, looped around her waist. Sunlight, still weak with winter, but bright and golden nonetheless, poured in through the high, arched windows, bathing her and her lover.

He stirred a moment later, disturbed by her withdrawal. “Móra? What’s the matter?” Eyes still closed, voice rough with long, deep, needed sleep.

“Allaidh, you aren’t in love with me.”

“’S’not something I ate,” he mumbled into the pillow.

“What?” Baffled by him, she stared.

“Am in love with you,” he explained, pulling her back down, and burrowing his face back into her mane of hair, a rumble of appreciation echoing from his chest.

“It’s just—”

“Not just sex—which is excellent,” he added. “Not us being trapped here, either. I invited Conrì to our Bonding ceremony.”

“You can’t—you what?” She wriggled, trying to sit up. “We’re not Bon—”

“I love you, Móra.” It stopped the tirade in its tracks.

“Stop saying that,” she pleaded. “You don’t.”

“Do. And you love me too.”

“I—what? How do you—”

Apparently giving up on going back to sleep, he half-rose, propped on one elbow, looming over her and stealing a kiss before she could muster the willpower to push him away.

“Móra, I’ve known you since we were children. Credit me with some observational powers. Your eyes darken just so, and go soft. You laugh with me; I’ve never seen you laugh with another man, and we’ve been living in one another’s pockets since Roarke brought you home; and you shout at me—everyone else gets the cold shoulder. _And_ we’re lovers. Did you think I didn’t know what that means? Didn’t understand and appreciate?”

She stared at him, bright green eyes wide. “You—you l-love me?”

“Would you have me swear it in the Old Language? Or would applying to Roarke for your hand be enough? I could write it in the sky, provided Roarke lets me live, or have the wind sing it through the lands,” he offered.                

“You love me,” she repeated again, sounding more definite this time.

“And you love me,” he replied.

“I love you?”

“Gods, I hope so.”

She stayed silent for a long moment, and he let her, no longer breathing, watching her consider the words, the meaning behind them. At last, she looked up again. His heart, already lodged neatly in his throat, stopped.

And she smiled. “And I love you.”

“See?” he managed past the ungainly lump blocking his throat, grinning back like a loon. “I told you.”


End file.
